


(in)Finite

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post Infinity War, Vision discovers he is alive, visionweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 05:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16570853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Vision wakes up to discover he is not as dead as he should be.





	(in)Finite

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vision Week 2018! Thanks for putting on an event to celebrate our wonderful synthezoid!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Death was uncomfortable. An understatement, he presumes, though he can’t seem to come up with a better description at the moment. How he knows this is a bit of a quandary given a sweep of available information suggests such a process is a one time thing, life finite and immutable once taken.  Despite this there are flickering images in his mind, faces coming in and out of focus like an old television in need of aluminum foil ears and a swift smack to the side. From what he can gather through the interference is that he died twice, both uncomfortable yet in different ways, at least he seems to have a niggling inclination that they were different. The first seemed oddly peaceful, his attention solely directed at the tear-stained cheeks of the woman taking his life - her name, her face, her voice, her essence lost somewhere that he cannot locate, but she seemed reluctant to steal his last breath. The second, in contrast, was greedy, violent, the sneer on the face sends a jolt deep into his brain, terror suddenly and unequivocally recognizable. **  
**

His eyes open, desperate to confirm there isn’t a hand on his forehead or fingers fracturing his skull with brute force. Air rushes from between his lips as he finds himself laying on a table in an industrially fashioned room, fluorescent lights humming in boredom above his head, causing him to blink.  Four times he tries to keep his eyes open, figure out his surroundings, but it is so bright, the fifth blink elongates as he holds his eyelids just a bit tighter to stop the flow of the overwhelming amount of information to process. 

With the environment nullified from perception (minus the softness of the mattress beneath him and the way the air conditioning sends invisible twisters dancing along his bare skin), he seeks to assess his functioning. 

First he tests his toes, curling and then uncurling them four times, noting the way the fibers of the blanket tickle his skin, a pleasing sensation. Next he bends his knees, right and then left, alternating them before testing out his coordination to move them as one. The blanket lifts as he raises his knees and he discovers an unpleasant pocket of frigid air, an experience he swiftly reverses by straightening his legs and collapsing the blanket to its resting state. His hands and arms he tests a bit differently, using them to run along his torso, seeking out any sign of damage or concern, their journey slowing down when he reaches a fault line on his chest that seems out of place. Methodically he runs the pad of his finger up and down the scar, noting the smoothness of the new skin as compared to the slightly ridged texture of the rest of his body. A slither descends along his spine, initiating from the same place in his brain as the jolt, an all encompassing feeling shrouding him. It takes .86 seconds to recognize his fear. 

Luckily, it seems his amygdala is functioning quite well. Technically his visual cortex is too, as is his spinal cord, neural networks, limbic system, occipital lobes, auditory cortex (or so he assumes the gentle _click click_ echoing in his head is from the machine next to his bed and not a product of a hallucination - though if it is a hallucination it confirms his temporal and parietal lobes are at least communicating, albeit incongruously to reality).  Which leaves his frontal lobe. Given he has been astutely reasoning through his bodily functioning and physical location, his ability to systematically analyze is still in tact. Memories and emotions (besides fear) are a bit less discernible, each reach into his mind  reveals a kaleidoscope of colors and faces, rotating at such a breakneck pace he cannot parse out any details. 

“Vision?” 

A word with numerous meanings, some more direct concerning the ability to physically see objects, others more abstract, prophetic even. But this is said as if it is a name which is not one of the options in Merriam Webster. 

“Vision, are you awake?”

As far as he is aware, he was the only one in this room, thus, thanks to his neurons sending waves across his frontal lobe, he can deduce that he might be this Vision. So he opens his eyes and finds a woman staring at him, her black hair tied into a ponytail and forehead developing deeper creases the longer he remains silent. “Am I Vision?”

The woman nods, a hand coming to cover her mouth as her eyes develop a harrowed sheen, “Do you rem-” a pause, a wave of her hand, a turn of her head, a sharp intake of breath, and the deflation of her body are all things he takes to indicate a negative emotional reaction to his question. She resets herself, haltingly lowering to sit onto the wheeled stool next to his bed, the squeaking of the plastic on the floor grating as she moves closer. “I’m Helen Cho.”

“It is nice to meet you.”

Lines branch from her eyes as she flashes him a smile, it is one he perceives as disingenuous. He is not sure if that is concerning given it has no impact on his own perceptions or functioning currently. “How are you doing?”

Her question is slow, professionally calm though he can sense a small vibration at the end of the last word, a break from the cool and collected persona she has on display for him. The answer is one he was attempting to ascertain before she came in, so he decides to finish his assessment before answering, believing truth needs to be based on an adequate amount of quantifiable data. All other parts of his body confirmed to be working appropriately, he runs a diagnostic of his heart and finds its lively beat falls in the exceptional range of health. “My heart is functioning well.”

“Good.” A flutter on his wrist draws his eyes down. “I’m sorry.” Immediately she removes her hand from his arm and he is unconcerned with her action, more curious about the dull gray of his flesh blending in with the vibranium imbedded in his arms. “Vision?”

He lifts his arm, eyes squinting as he catalogues the observation, uncertain why he feels a hollowness in his chest, a flare of despair in his overactive amygdala that screams _run_. “I-,” a vertiginous array of images surface in his mind, convoluted, harrowing, and indistinguishable, but there is a feeling of loss, of longing, that there should be something...more, yet it fades, falling away in granules no larger than sand that dissipate into non-existence once they are spread too far. It leaves him feeling slightly perturbed. “I feel...odd.”

A tear carves a lazy path down her cheek, Helen wiping it away as her lips fight between a stern line and a slight smile. “Your frontal lobe sustained incredible damage. We tried to fix it as best we could but we don’t know what will be affected or how permanent it may be.”

The feel of tearing in his forehead is strictly psychosomatic, yet it is just real enough for him to bring his fingers to his head, feel the indent in his skin. “I may never remember what happened?” 

“Possibly, though we are going to do everything we can to help you.” Each word is weighed down more than the one before, as if the continuation of the thought adds another sandbag to her body, until she can barely breathe enough to say the rest. It is alarming, the way she wilts, yet he cannot figure out why nor if he is supposed to respond in a certain way. Based on the offer of help he believes some sort of gratitude is acceptable. 

“Thank you.”  Vision considers what she has shared, and all the things that fell through the cracks in her words, the little truths that aren’t being uttered, all reference to the life he has seemingly forgotten left strategically out of reach. There is only so much he can do to resolve whatever issues are occurring. But it all seems infinitesimal to him, given the peculiarity of his situation. Life is supposed to be finite, death the last stop before oblivion occurs. His body seems to have forgotten that fact, yet his mind did not, a mostly empty canvas on which he can paint the rest of his new existence. Perhaps this is as it should be, when one cheats death. “My heart is beating.”

”Impresively well.”

“And my brain is operating appropriately.”

She nods, “For the most part, yes.” 

A concession he accepts but does not acknowledge, not certain if memory is necessary for living. “I suppose that is acceptable for now.”

A genuine smile creates more lines on her tired face. “I think after everything, that’s pretty good. I mean,” she gestures at him, hands waving up and down at his torso, “You’re alive!”

Vision isn’t sure how to process the tone of her voice or her tears, can’t tell if they are to be tied to sadness of some kind, joy at his revelation, or perhaps there is simply something in the air disturbing her lachrymose glands. Whichever it is is mostly inconsequential at the present moment. If they can never discover a way to correct for his frontal lobe damage, whomever he was before his death may forever be a mystery. This itself is unfortunate. But he has been given a rare opportunity in his rebirth, a privilege he will not squander. Hesitantly he mirrors the smile on her face. “I am.” 


End file.
